


Devour Me

by TheLexFiles



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Freakytits - Freeform, Literary Sexts, NSFW, One Shot, Smut, this started as a meme on my rp blog and i made it a fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 18:44:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11720268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLexFiles/pseuds/TheLexFiles
Summary: “After everything, you can’t bear to part with me, can you?”It’s a rhetorical question. She already knows the answer.





	Devour Me

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt for this one shot comes from a meme made of Literary Sexts as edited by Amanda Oaks & Caitlyn Siehl. It was sent to me on my roleplay blog from @oceansinmychest, and I decided to expand on it. I thought I'd lost this draft, hence the delay in posting. Enjoy.

“ Every time, you peel back my skin, pry open my ribs, and feast on my insides. Every time, you make a meal of my heart, and every time, I let you. “

\- from _[Literary Sexts](http://lizzyisameme.tumblr.com/post/157880770875/literary-sexts-vol-1-poetry-meme) _

* * *

The time has come for that shiny little crown.

Joan believes she is victorious; it has always been about the power and control, and even at her worst, Vera comes back to her. Be it debriefs in her office, a moment between their work schedules, or in her cell, late at night when the others are sound asleep. She always comes back, again, again, _again_.

Everything Vera has fought to build up has born torn down, shaken to its very foundation, all while Joan has risen again, adorning teal and gaining support from the very inmates who once  _feared_ her - and most still do. 

Vera is her savior; the ligature marks run deep, the bloodshot eyes haunt her with every cold gaze. A hero does not deserve what she has been given, only to be taken away so sharply and all at once.

Yet, she comes back – pain cannot subside the adoration - and dare she say it – _the love_.

Why **else** would she be here?

“What keeps bringing you to me, Vera?”  The question is posed in the center of her cell. All of her items are kept pristine, her bed made, her shoes tucked away neatly in the corner. The door is closed; they are alone. Joan has witnessed life disappear beneath her palms, and she very nearly suffered the same _fate_ as **her** Jianna.

There’s irony in it. She had been too late to save her, but Vera was not.

“After everything, you can’t bear to part with me, can you?”

It’s a rhetorical question. She already _knows_ the answer.

Small hands ball into fists, gripping into the fabric of her teal sweater; anger and sadness blend into one with the force that pushes her back towards the bed.

Joan lets her; it’s comeuppance for all she has done, time and time again.

* * *

She’s playing with fire, luring Vera here and straddling her hips. Her small hands can barely wrap around Joan’s wrists, caring little for the burn scars as she pins it above Joan’s head. 

She’s been made like this, moulded into a foreign woman, made angry. The amusement beset on Joan’s expression urges Vera to tighten her grip; she’s lost her power, but she can still _try_  for one last chance. She doesn’t know how far Joan will let her go, but she’ll damned if she doesn’t make the effort.

_She’s damned anyway, and so is Joan_.

The former Governor could, by all means, free Vera’s grasp (where her nails have begun to dig into her skin, the sensation running up along her arm, down her spine), or simply throw the woman off of her like _nothing_ , like the six women who tried to take her down in the yard. 

Instead, Joan lets Vera continue her control-seeking tirade with a knee between her thighs, and another hand beneath her shirt. Despite her attempts, it all remains rather _tame_.

“Is that all?”

“ _Shut up.”_

Such a sharp retort is cause for exultation; the mouse of a woman has come a long ways, standing out from behind her mentor’s shadow, pouncing where opportunity lies. Her knee grinds harder. Joan bites down on her lip; she can’t deny the beginnings of her own arousal, with skin aflame beneath teal fabric. 

She decides to challenge her former protégé, fighting against Vera’s hold and freeing her good wrist to grab at her slender waist, pulling her closer, _harder_. Vera doesn’t expect it, gasping with the sharp sting where a bruise will most definitely form later. Joan strikes against her, and her retaliation comes quickly, without much thought. 

Vera’s free hand goes for the jugular, bruised, scarred, and _raw_. 

Granite eyes widen; the pain is excruciating against tender skin. Slender fingers grip, nails dig in. Joan remembers the moments where she clawed at the rope, trying to _breathe_  while her entire weight was held against it. Vera has learned to strike when her opponent least expects it. It earns Joan’s _compliance_.

Her hand lets go of Vera’s wrist, lets  _Vera_ have her way. There are no more bargaining chips; she cannot have her arm twisted any longer. The pawn has moved to become queen anyway, with or without her shiny little crown. 

* * *

Years of self-discipline crumble beneath the guise of stimulation; her physiological reaction leaves her short of breath, a mess between pale thighs. A shiver resonates across her broad shoulders, left with her pants around her ankles. Vera has removed herself. It’s rare to see her leave without asking ( _demanding_ ) reciprocation, but tonight is **different.**

Her bleeding heart denounces the requirement from Joan. Too much strain, and Vera fears it’ll cause more harm than good. She’ll leave Ferguson’s cell, flushed and hot beneath the uniform, wet between her legs. She'll deal with it later.

She leaves Joan in silence; her power has been stripped away and devoured because of the very woman in question, yet Vera cannot bear to part with a _dead woman walking._

She isn’t ready to grieve the inevitable. 


End file.
